


A Sun That Never Rises

by windbloom



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game), Claymore
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Bloodborne Fusion, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2019-03-24 14:21:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13812999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windbloom/pseuds/windbloom
Summary: Clare is a hunter in the beast-plagued city of Yharnam. Seeking to escape her past, she has been hunting beasts for longer than she can remember.  She manages to find solace in the companionship of hunters like herself, but as meaningful relationships blossom, she struggles to keep her passive objectivity. Will Clare and her companions uncover the secrets hidden within the city of never ending night, or will they be drawn in by a force much older and deeper than they could have imagined?





	1. Aberration

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by reading [Ash and Dust](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13703238) by SallySS.

The statue appears to be weeping. The realization of it causes Clare to stop in her tracks and stare. It might have been a peaceful moment, if not for the pounding of the blood in her ears and the electric spark of adrenaline pumping through her. She can’t tell if the statue is a man or a woman, being that it’s covered entirely in flowing robes of sculpted stone, doubled over, with its hands covering its face.

The sun has long since set, and the light from the moon cuts shadows into pieces, causing an unearthly glow to descend upon the ruined city.

The night of the hunt has arrived, and yet so too has the night of the hunt always been. A night that never ends. A sun that never rises. A nightmare that never rests.

A beast emerges from the shadows, screaming and dragging his axe on the ground as he rushes in Clare’s direction. She’s prepared, of course. She needs only to raise her hand from beneath her cloak, and as her finger presses smoothly against the pistol’s trigger, she can already see defeat blossom in the beast’s wild eyes. The sound of the gunshot splits the silence apart as the silver bullet digs into the beast’s chest. Her saw cleaver, a favored weapon for a hunter such as herself, snaps out at the flick of her wrist, elongating into its cleaver form. Before the beast can raise his axe against her, Clare swings her arm up in one brutally swift movement, bereft of any wasted motion or showy flair. An efficient upward slice connects with the beast’s gut. The saw’s serrated edges find the beast’s malformed body and tear into it. The force of the blow knocks him backwards; the axe flies out of his hand to clatter to the ground as his broken body does the same.

The beast is wearing a man’s clothing, but his eyes are blood red. No one knows why humans started transforming into beasts, but Clare has long since stopped her wondering. She has taken the role of hunter willingly, and she _will_ continue the hunt for as long as her body allows her to do so. She had signed a contract, after all. How long ago had it been…?

“Are you going to harvest it, or what?”

The voice, a human one with a clearly feminine tone, almost startles Clare due to its drastic difference from the usual ear-splitting screams of her prey. Clare raises her head to look up at the hunter who stands in the shadows of an alleyway across the deserted street.

“I don’t need it,” Clare says defiantly. Blood splatters to the ground as she snaps her saw cleaver back into its smaller and more manageable saw form.

“Oho, we’ve got ourselves a cocky one, don’t we?” The other hunter remarks playfully as she steps into the weak light of a disrepaired street lamp. Her hair is shoulder length and pale, pushed behind her ears on either side. She holds a cane in one hand and an ancient-looking rifle is strapped to her back. She’s wearing a tailored hunter’s vest and trousers, and a top hat sits on her head. She might have looked refined if she weren’t covered in dried blood. She reaches the still-warm corpse of the beast and pulls out a few empty glass bottles and a syringe.

“D’ya mind?”

Clare shrugs and takes a step back. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her cloak and purses her lips.  

“Cocky, but quiet. I can live with that,” the hunter teases, smiling grimly as she settles down to one knee. Clare can hear the sound of the syringe piercing deep into the beast’s skin to extract the healing blood.

“Y’know, it’s funny,” the hunter says idly as she works, “I’ve seen a lot more of us turning up lately. The world beyond Yharnam must be getting rough.”

Clare just stares at her. How long has it been since she had been expected to hold a conversation? Hunters didn’t need to talk to each other. They just needed to hunt.

“So what was your illness? Small pox? Rabies? Mumps?”

“Nothing.”

“Dysentery, Broken heart--Wait, what’d you say?”

“Nothing. No illness. Just here.”

“You’re kidding!” The hunter exclaims, looking up at Clare with a skeptical expression.

Clare’s thick scarf is pulled up past her nose, so it’s only her silver eyes that shine in the sickening orange light as she stares at her in silence. The other hunter holds her stare for a moment, and then looks away. She closes her eyes and smiles to herself.

“Okay. Just here, got it,” She pushes herself up to her feet, and then continues, “Y’know, you remind me of someone.”

Clare watches in silence as she stuffs the filled vials into one of the many pockets on her pack. It’s then that Clare sees that the hunter’s hands are shaking, and that there are scars on her thin arms. She has a torn, ragged look about her, like a doll played with too roughly and left to be forgotten. Her clothing, while at first glance seemingly extravagant, is actually ashen and frayed. In fact, the only piece of clothing she seems to have taken care of at all is her top hat. Clare feels something in her throat, a hardness that hadn’t been there before. She opens her mouth to speak.

“I’ll leave you to your marks, friend,” the other hunter says quickly and quietly. “Letting you finish them off means less work for me, but save us some blood, aye?” She looks up, and when she smiles there’s a dark sadness there that Clare hadn’t seen before.

“Name’s Helen, by the way.”

“Clare.”

“Never met a Clare before. Has a good ring to it, I think,” Helen turns, and then looks over her shoulder. “Hey, if you ever need a brief respite, try Oedon Chapel. A few of us tend to gather there, when the night grows too long to bear.”

Clare watches her leave, saying nothing, and when the hunter disappears behind a ruined column, Clare finally turns away. She tightens the grip she has on her saw cleaver until she can feel just a twinge of pain in her fingers. The night _would_ be long, and there were so many more beasts ready for slaughter.

No time to dwell, or think, or feel.


	2. Echoes

Clare is covered in blood. Her cloak glistens, shining vermilion in the light of the moon as she darts through the neglected courtyards of Old Yharnam. A thick fog of resolute focus washes over her. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolls once, twice, three times. And then there is silence.

Old Yharnam is a forgotten city. Abandoned by men and set aflame to cleanse a terrible disease. Now, only beasts remain, and the ruined pathways have certainly proved to be an ideal hunting ground.

With so much to do, it’s not wonder that Clare’s muscles ache. She has been hunting without rest for far too long.  A relentless song of slaughter, playing over and over again until everything blurs, and one moment bleeds into the next. Somewhere far away, her body and her mind plead with her for rest. Those appeals are but off key notes, playing out of time with her aria. Easily denied.

From beyond the wreckage of a charred doorway, an oversized beast with her head covered by a scrap of cloth bounds towards Clare, and for a moment, one word among the beast’s pleading screams becomes clear.

“pLeAse-”

And for a moment, Clare loses herself to a thought. Who had this beast been, before her transformation? What kind of person was she? What had she lost? The questions threaten to overwhelm Clare, and it’s only in the last moment that she manages to pull herself back to the present, with the beast almost upon her.

Clare slams the saw cleaver’s dull edge against the beast’s skull, and the scrap that had covered the beast’s face turns a brilliant blood-soaked red as the bones crack beneath the force of Clare’s strike. The beast flies backward, crushed against a doorframe as Clare follows up with one pistol shot, and then two. A third. And a fourth. And then Five. Her ears are ringing. Her hand is shaking.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Clare can feel the muscles in her jaw twitch as she grits her teeth. The loneliness of an empty gun. The hollow, metallic sound of the vacant chamber echoing in her mind. Her melody has been destroyed. She shoves her hand into her pack, deep to the bottom. She has to have more bullets somewhere. Somewhere. She can feel her heart racing. It’s so quiet now. She needs to keep moving. She can’t stop.

The husk of the beast, what’s left of it, lays on the ground at her feet. She looks down at it, and the blown-open face stares back up at her.

“Don’t look at me,” she manages to reply unevenly, but her words seem to sound distant and not like her own. Finally, she finds cold silver-tipped rounds between her fingers, and she desperately pulls them from her pack. As she pauses to open her pistol’s chamber, she hears a sound. A haunting melody of words from a voice she recognizes.

_You wouldn’t leave my side in the beginning. I tried to lose you, but, well, determination is one of your strong suits, isn’t it?_

“Teresa?” Clare chokes out the name, and it sounds all at once both foreign and familiar. How long had it been, since she’d--

_Do you remember that day, down by the river? The water was so cool, and the sun was so bright. I’d never seen the world so beautiful._

“It was the first time I saw you smile,” Clare whispers shakily as her eyes flutter closed.

_I cherished the time we spent together. You changed me. No, that’s not right. You let me be who I really was. I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I didn’t need to always be on the defensive. Thinking back, it’s no wonder I was caught off guard._

“Please…” Clare sobs, falling to her knees. The sound of her shuddered breath echoes off the walls of the empty courtyard. The silver bullets in her hand fall to the ground.

Suddenly, Clare sees it happening, all over again. The sky is a blown out white and everything shimmers in high contrast, but it’s still all so clear. Teresa’s pitying eyes. The small smile on her face. The sound of her blade clattering to the ground.

Clare tries to look away, but it’s all there. Every single moment that marked the end of the only true happiness she had ever felt. Memories of the past flow freely. She’s drowning in them.

_Hey._

A different voice rises up, a faint softness against the violent white noise of her heart.

_Try Oedon Chapel._

The words of Helen, the ragged hunter, break the crashing waves of despair, and for a moment, Clare remembers the hunter’s pained smile. Her eyes snap open, and she looks up and around, as if for the first time. She’s alone. A crow releases one distant and solitary caw. She pushes herself up heavily.

“When the night grows too long to bear,” Clare whispers slowly, repeating the words like an incantation. It works. She’s moving.

The master gate to the Cathedral Ward opens up before her like a dark vow. Lanterns mark the way. They glow a pale lavender light that shines against the twisted statues that line the deserted streets. Oedon Chapel isn’t far, and though Clare had meant to avoid it, she can’t help but find herself drawn to the promise of refuge. A place to regain her composure. Somewhere to rest in the interval between one feverish bloodbath and the next.


	3. Reprisal

The moon hangs low in a cloudless sky bereft of stars. It’s unnaturally quiet in the Cathedral Ward. Even the Healing Church hunters have abandoned the winding streets.

Oedon Chapel looms over the hallowed grounds, seeming more like one enormous statue than a building. Every wall and door is elaborately decorated in sculpted stone. Clare wonders what stories are being told in that extravagantly carved rock. What meaning did they hold, and to whom? As she circles the building, she finds the southern entrance door ajar, and she slips inside.

It’s cool and dark inside the chapel. Her footsteps echo against the steps as she descends, heading towards the central hall.  Pots and bowls of all shapes and sizes line the floor, stacked up against the walls; burning with incense or containing candles burning low. The incense snakes along the floor, curling around columns and floating languidly towards the vaulted ceiling high above.

There’s a soothing feeling about the place, as if one is being slowly submerged beneath the sea. Sounds fade; thoughts become clear. The raging waves above are all but forgotten in the deep dark below.

Clare stops and turns, pressing her back against a thick column. She leans against it, allowing her eyes to slowly close. She can feel sleep stalking her. Perhaps she’ll dream again of the white flowers, and the cottage on the hill. The old man in the chair and the doll in the garden. Sometimes, the doll would take her hand, and then--

“See? This is why we stick together.”

A faint voice echoes in the chamber, startling Clare from her reverie. She can hear footsteps. Stiffening against the column, she tilts her head to one side to listen.

“God, are you still on about that? I got us load of vials. Loads!”

Clare narrows her eyes, straining to hear. It sounds like a different voice, and she notices two sets of footsteps.

“You… left, without telling the group,” A pause. “Here, let me see the wound.”

“Hold on. Am I supposed to report to you now? That’s new. You get a promotion or something?”

“Shut up and take the blood.”

Clare can see them now. Two hunters have arrived from the northern entrance and stand near a stone bench in the central hall. One of them is Helen, the hunter from before, and again she looks worse for wear. Her pants are torn at one leg, and crimson blood runs down into her boot. The other hunter with Helen seems not to have fared much better. Her short hair is wet with sweat, and blood runs down her temple and along her jaw. She’s wearing what Clare immediately recognizes as the Healing Churches’ battle vestments, with an open cloak and shawl that drapes around the woman’s shoulders and hangs almost to the floor. A bloodied mace hangs at her side.

Helen laughs grimly. “Well, when you put it that way.”

The short-haired hunter pulls out a blood vial. The sharp end faces down towards Helen’s thigh, and in one swift movement she presses the needle in, past the fabric of Helen’s trousers. As the blood disappears from the vial into her leg, Helen lets out a low groan.

“Deneve, you know why I went alone, right?” Helen speaks again, the tone of her voice changed. Softer, more subdued. The moment hangs in the air painfully.

“Shh,” the other hunter murmurs, and Clare watches as the short-haired woman stands up swiftly and, without turning her body, her eyes shift towards Clare’s location.

“Someone’s here.”

Clare steps out from behind the column. She realizes almost immediately that she has her hands on both of her weapons. How natural it had become, this aggressive stance. Slowly, awkwardly, she lifts her hand off her pistol and raises it in the air, as if to wave.

“Helen, it’s Clare.”

“Whoa, you made it!” Helen exclaims as she tries to move, but Deneve puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Clare, is it? Haven’t heard of you.” Her tone isn’t wholly accusatory, but there’s a hint of skepticism that Clare can appreciate. Surviving means having a certain amount of healthy distrust for the unknown.

“She’s a loner. Actually signed up for it, if you can believe that,” Helen remarks idly.

“Is that true?” Deneve says slowly, her eyes are sharp and penetrating as she stares at Clare.

“Does it matter? I’m here. I’m hunting. That’s really all there is to it,” Clare responds flatly, willing the emotion out of her voice.

Helen smirks. Deneve says nothing.

“Said like a true hunter.”

Another voice rings out clear as a bell, coming from behind Clare. It’s yet another hunter, and as she walks down the steps towards the group, Clare can’t help but stare. This one looks less like a hunter and more like a royal knight. Her cloak is long, and complexly stitched floral patterns run along the front. The fabric is finely made, a detail that isn’t lost due to the drying red blood that has seeped within it. Beautifully crafted leather gloves and boots fit tightly. A short blade hangs in a scabbard strapped at her waist. Her hat is pulled low across her face, and the feathers in the back look almost like two horns as she angles her head downward. Long, sharp strands of hair fall forward across her cloak, and even more flows behind her.

As she descends the steps, Clare can sense a massive amount of blood-tinged energy. She sets her hand back atop the butt of her pistol.

“But I believe you’ll soon find that there’s more to it than that,” The hunter-knight’s melodic voice floods through the room, and once she reaches Clare’s position, she extends a delicate, long-fingered hand.

“Miria.”

Clare tenses, biting her tongue as she looks down at the open hand.

“You needn’t fear a handshake,” Miria’s tone shifts towards amusement, and slowly she lets her hand drop back to rest at her side. “But the irony of it isn’t lost on me.”

“A handshake is a contract. I don’t sign contracts without knowing the terms,” Clare responds mechanically.

“Fair enough,” Miria gives her the smallest of smiles, a curling of one side of her lips, before turning and heading down the stairs to the others. “Do consider yourself welcome here. Oedon Chapel is owned by no one.”

Helen and Deneve had kept quiet and motionless during the exchange, watching and waiting, but now that Miria approaches them, unbuckling the rifle at her chest and letting her heavy coat drop from her slender shoulders, they start to move again.

“This one got in over her head again,” Deneve says dryly as she tears a bandage into a long, thin strip.

Helen frowns, “Says the one with blood pouring down the side of her head.”

“You’ve both made it back alive; that’s what’s important,” Miria says with a warm confidence as  she pulls out rolled parchments and papers from her pack, spreading them out across the flat surface of a raised tomb in the middle of the hall. “Did you find the passage?”

Clare can’t help but approach the group, who seem to have all but forgotten her presence as they busy themselves with their own tasks. 

“Yeah, we found it alright,” Deneve replies shortly. “Guarded by about an entire congregation.” She’s wrapping the bandage tightly around Helen’s leg, over top of her trousers. Helen’s expression is unreadable, but she’s holding on to Deneve’s shoulder, and her knuckles are white.

“Doors not locked though. We saw a few of ‘em going in. None came out,” Helen spits out the words, one eye shutting as Deneve pulls the bandage firmly and sets it into place. 

“Good,” Miria replies. She’s standing over the tomb, pouring over the documents that have been laid out. Maps and letters mostly, some of them still covered in dirt and tomb dust. Some of them signed in blood. The largest document is a map. Clare recognizes the location.

“What business would a hunter have in the Grand Cathedral?” Clare asks, surprising herself with own forwardness, and at the same time wondering why she’s bothering to care.

Miria turns, looking pointedly at Clare with an unreadable expression. Deneve frowns, and Helen looks away. It’s an awkward silence, and it permeates the room.  

“We’ll head out in a few hours,” Miria says quietly, looking in Deneve and Helen’s direction “Get some rest.” Then, she turns and strides back up the steps.

 

* * *

 

“Wait.”

The moment she speaks, Clare realizes how unnecessary her command is. Miria had been standing quite still atop the chapel’s second-level balcony, as if waiting for her approach. Clare’s voice splits the silence between them, but Miria doesn’t turn to face her. Instead, the hunter-knight keeps her gaze fixated upwards, into the sky.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Clare forces the words out as she sets her jaw and shoves her hands into the pockets of her coat.

And still, Miria stands unmoving, even as a harsh wind howls down into the cathedral ward. Leafless branches on dying trees sway and crack. When the wind subsides, Miria speaks.

“The Grand Cathedral holds… a secret that I’ve been hunting for, for a very long time.”

“Are you  _ really  _ a hunter?” Clare asks doubtingly.

“Does it matter?”

Miria echoes Clare’s own words, and Clare can feel the sting of them.

“You’re a true hunter. Bound by your oath, you’ve spent your days submerged deep beneath the bloody weight of the hunt. Your determination to stay true to your vow is the reason you’re still alive.”

“Don’t talk like you know me,” Clare spits out angrily. She starts to turn. “Forget it. This is a waste of time.”

“And hunting isn’t?” Miria’s voice scratches against the hard surface of Clare’s resolve, flickering sparks of uncertainty flourish within her.

“That’s what we’re  _ supposed  _ to be doing,” Clare retorts, fighting back against the hunter-knight’s calm, collected demeanor.

“That’s not all there is to this world.” Miria’s slow voice seeps in through the air, into Clare’s own heart, like a fine mist. “Deep down you’ve know that, just as much as I.”

“They’re beasts. Monsters! Their plague is a scourge; we have to cleanse it; freeing Yharnam once and for all from this horrible disease,” Clare’s forces the words out, but they sound desperate and weak, even as she clings to them. 

Miria turns, facing her. Her hat is pulled low, and Clare can’t see her eyes. 

“The truth of this world is far more cruel.”


	4. Pursuit

What choice does Clare have, but to follow?

Miria had left her there, out on the chapel balcony, with much to think about. More questions than answers. Feelings crept up from dark, forgotten places. Feelings she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Indecision, apprehension… and something like fear.

Fear of a world _far more cruel_ than the world she had known. The world she had escaped from. Had she managed to escape?

Unanswered questions drive Clare back into the chapel, incense whirling up behind her as she approaches the group with decisive surety. She stands before Miria and extends one hand. She can feel the redness rising in her cheeks.

“I want to come with you.”

Helen looks up and and wide grin stretches across her face.

Miria takes Clare’s hand and holds it for a moment. Despite wearing gloves, Clare can feel the warmth of her touch.

“This contract is one of fellowship. You don’t owe us anything, but you can’t act alone if it means threatening the safety of the group.” Miria’s grip tightens for a moment. “Do you understand?”

Clare strengthens her own grip and nods pointedly. “I understand.”

Miria nods and gives Clare’s hand a light squeeze before letting go. "Glad to have you with us.”

Deneve’s arms are crossed over her chest. She’s frowning, but there’s a tenderness in her voice when she speaks. “It’ll be good to have some extra help.”

“You have me to thank for that,” Helen says slyly, poking Deneve’s arm.

Deneve bristles and puts a hand on Helen’s shoulder. “No more heroics from you this time, alright?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m no hero,” Helen grins again, setting her top hat onto her head and tilting it fashionably to one side. “I just look like one.”

Deneve rolls her eyes and turns away. Clare notices that she’s smiling.

“The plan is fairly straightforward. Breach the courtyard, enter through the main doors. We’ll try stealth, but be prepared to take out anything that gets in our way.” Miria’s voice is low, and her smile has been replaced with a serious expression. She's pulled her short sword out, and as Miria examines it in the low candlelight, Clare notices the dull red inscriptions glowing faintly along the center of the blade.

“And what awaits us inside the cathedral?” Clare asks hesitantly.

“The truth,” Miria replies simply, and as she turns to replace the sword within its scabbard, her face is draped in shadow, “and an old friend.”

Clare frowns slightly, but says nothing.

Fellowship. An old concept from Clare’s past, crawling back to her. Why here? Why now? It didn’t matter. This was a single mission, and she would see it through to the end. Once she had her answers, she’d quit this group of strange hunters. That’s what she told herself now, as the party made to leave through the chapel’s northern exit.

And yet, as they strode out into the open air, Clare couldn’t help but feel an uneasiness creeping into her gut. She followed behind, and the figures of the three hunters before her seemed suddenly so insubstantial amid the arching stone statues and towering buildings. The warmth she’d felt dispersed as they ascended the steps, climbing up towards the heart of the cathedral ward. It was a warmth she wanted to return to. A warmth she couldn’t bear losing.

Not again.

 

* * *

 

The Grand Cathedral was in much the same state as Helen and Deneve had reported. Robed figures patrolled around the enormous double doors that served as the main entrance.

“Who’re they?” Clare murmurs under her breath to Helen as the group pauses. Miria stands ahead, watching the robed figures in silence. Deneve stands behind, hands at her hips. Helen hangs back and raises an eyebrow.

“Church doctors. Damn, you really kept your head down, didn’t you?”

The tall, pale-faced figures move slowly. Black robes, wide-brimmed caps, and the eerie light glowing from the purple lanterns they hold doesn’t help their bedside manner. Clare notices that all of them hold weapons. Threaded canes that could extend into a a sharp whip-like form, massive staves, scythes, and some even carry giant wooden crucifixes.

“They don’t… look like doctors,” Clare murmurs flatly. Helen purses her lips and turns to stare at them.

“You do have a point,” Helen mutters.

Miria turns back towards them. “We’ll split into two groups. Clare and myself will take the eastern wall. Helen and Deneve take the west. Go all the way to the far end of the cathedral’s outer walls, and then back towards the front. We’ll meet up at the doors.”

Deneve and Helen nod. They draw their weapons, and Clare does the same.

“If you get into trouble, ring your bell,” and as Miria says it, Clare remembers the hunter’s bell. The one she had been given at the start of all this. A bell that was said to call upon other hunters during one’s time of need. Clare had never used it.

“We’ve got this,” Helen says with a smirk.

“Remember, no heroics,” Deneve says evenly.

“Let’s go,” Miria says with a crushing finality that Clare feels deep in her gut. The two teams split up, and it’s Clare following behind as Miria sprints towards the wall. She’s fast, but Clare has no trouble keeping up with her, and Clare realizes how well suited the hunter-knight is as a commander.

But could she fight?

The first church doctor they come upon is taken by complete surprise. Miria’s ahead, so she takes first blood, and it’s her sword that Clare sees, a shining sanguine blur arcing through the air until it finds its target. Blood pours down the man’s pale-skinned throat, and he falls to his knees. Any cry of warning he’d meant to make now just a desperate gurgling choke as blood fills his lungs.

Clare decides that Miria does indeed know how to fight. She sprints ahead, gaining on Miria as they both jump onto the rafters of a long, low building. Two hunters, flying swiftly and silently from roof to roof, until they spot their next target. This time it’s Clare’s turn. She takes the lead and all in one swift motion she vaults into the sky, saw cleaver snapping out into it’s fully extended form. Before her mark has a chance to look up, she’s above him. Her saw’s blade goes deep, and she drags it downwards as she falls, nearly ripping the doctor’s body in two.

She jumps again hard as soon as she hits the ground, flicking her wrist to clean the dripping blood from her blade. She doesn’t realize that she’s smiling.

They reach the edge of the wall. By the time they round the corner, their presence has become known. A church doctor with a threaded cane and a pistol is waiting for them, his pistol at the ready. As soon as Clare appears in his line of sight, he shoots. The bullet enters through the muscle at the edge of her shoulder, tearing a hole in both fabric and skin. She cries out, more in anger than in pain. She hoped Miria hadn’t noticed her mistake.

It’s Miria who takes the doctor’s attention after that. She has closed in on him, and she slows for a moment, arms going wide. A gesture of surrender. The doctor laughs darkly and raises his whip, bringing it down in one brutal motion. The end of the whip catches against Miria’s sword. She pulls back, twisting the blade so that the whip gets caught around it.

Clare had already realized Miria’s intentions, and as soon as the doctor tries to pull back, she appears behind him. It’s her bare fist that rushes forward, pummeling the man’s lower back and actually going _through_ him. The sheer force of it sends him upwards, and blood rains down upon Clare as she focuses to absorb it. She shudders. Her heart is racing. It feels so good.

The body drops in front of Clare, and she stands there for a moment, literally dripping with blood. Miria takes one long, appraising look at her.

“Nice.”

“Thanks,” Clare responds gruffly.

They continue towards their goal. The torn up skin at Clare’s shoulder burns with a dull pain, but they’re getting close to the cathedral entrance now. Only a little further.

It’s then that the bell sounds.

The sound of it seems to vibrate within Clare’s entire being. It’s a horrible sound to hear. A scream would have been better.

“Damn it,” Miria curses under her breath. She looks back at Clare, and Clare nods. They head west, towards the sound of the bell. It’s a risk to try to make it across the central stairs, but it’s a  risk worth taking.

The sound of something enormous crushing against stone only makes Clare push herself to move faster.

“Whatever it is, it’s big,” she says breathlessly, panting as she jumps up a flight of stairs and dashes down an alleyway that opens into an expansive courtyard surrounded by a spike-tipped iron fence.

“Miria!”

It’s Helen’s voice. Clare swings up onto a balcony, and that’s when she sees it. A giant man. At least ten stories high, and yet somehow oddly thin. Over-sized church robes drape across it’s pallid skin. It’s raising an equally enormous axe over it’s head, as if in slow motion.

It’s target is Helen. She’s on the ground, and it’s then that Clare notices that Helen is holding Deneve in her arms. Deneve’s eyes are closed. Clare leaps forward, slamming her saw cleaver into the giant’s side, but it just bounces off of it, like trying to cut through rock with a butter knife.

Miria reaches Helen, scooping her and Deneve up and darting away just in time. The giant’s axe hits the ground so hard that it causes a small crater, sending pieces of stone flying in all directions.

Clare hears Miria yell, but she can’t make out the words, and her voice is oddly distant. Clare’s focus is on the giant, and only the giant. She attacks again and again, but she finds no purchase. And now, the giant’s attention has finally turned towards her.

The giant swipes down low, his massive hand grazing the ground. It’s a surprisingly fast movement, and it takes Clare by surprise. A scream rips itself from her throat as the giant’s fist finds her in the side and sends her flying into a fence. She clutches the cold iron and tries to stand.

“Clare! Stand close to him.” Miria’s voice. Distant. Passionate. And somehow, the words reach Clare, and she finds their meaning, pushing herself up hard and rolling forward to dodge another terrible swipe.

She’s practically underneath the giant now, and his legs look so thin and frail. Finally, a weak point. She can smell blood. She leans back, letting her saw cleaver arc around from the side. The giant groans as the cleaver’s serrated teeth tear into the back of his knee, and he falls tenuously forward, using the blunt end of his axe to catch his fall. From there, it only takes a few more blows to the head to slay him. The sound of his massive body hitting the ground echoes in Clare’s ears.

After the dust settles, Helen stands up gingerly and limps to kneel at Deneve’s side. The short-haired hunter lays on her back. Miria has a hand at her neck, feeling for a heartbeat.

“I couldn’t leave her,” Helen says quietly.

“She’s still alive,” Miria says quickly. Clare looks back, the purple glow of lantern lights appear against the wall.

“We can’t stay here,” she urges. She reaches for her pistol and a spike of pain surges through her. Her shoulder has certainly seen better days.

“Helen. Go back to the chapel. We’ll take it from here,” Miria says swiftly.

Helen doesn’t argue. She lifts Deneve up into her arms, grunting against the added weight, and heads back towards Oedon Chapel. Clare watches her go, and before she disappears from sight, Helen turns her head and calls back.

“Letting you finish ‘em off means less work for me, right?”

Clare shakes her head.

“Idiot,” she says under her breath, as her smirk fades to a grimace.

“Let’s move,” Miria’s voice sets Clare into motion. They circle back, expertly dispatching the few remaining doctors. Pressing forward until they reach the final sets of stairs that lead up to the Grand Cathedral’s massive double doors.

It will be over soon. They’ll pass through the threshold and meet whatever fate awaits them inside. Clare can feel her heart racing, and she glances at her companion, wondering if she feels the same.

At the top of the stairs, Miria slows to a stop. The hunter-knight has no discernible expression. Her cap has been pulled down tight, casting a dark shadow over her eyes. She had tied her hair up, but strands of it have fallen out. Her pale hair flows in the breeze. She truly does look like the descendant of some royal lineage. To see beauty now, after everything Clare has been through. It’s almost too much.

Miria speaks in a low, determined voice. Her eyes are trained on the cathedral’s front doors. “When we go inside, we’ll need to split up. You go down the stairs to the right of the entrance. The dungeons. There may be some hunters trapped down there, and beasts.”

Clare nods. It had seemed like a perfectly normal instruction at the time.

“I’ll stay on the main floor and move forward, into the cathedral’s main hall. Don’t follow me, and don’t open the door. Rendezvous at the chapel.”

“What are you--”

“There’s no time. Come on,” Miria commands as she moves forward.

What choice does Clare have, but to follow?


	5. Descent

It’s deathly quiet inside the Grand Cathedral. Stained-glass windows line the walls and rise to the vaulted ceiling on either side of the main hall’s long expanse. Moonlight shines in from one side, making the floating dust visible as it hangs in the stagnant air. The shadows of nightmares from low-burning candles seem to dance high along the walls.

Miria takes a deep breath. She pushes the final set of doors open, and they close with a slow creak behind her. She draws her weapon then, but her arms hang loosely at her side.

The high altar, a long, low table of polished marble, sits at the far end of the room. Behind it, an enormous backdrop of beautifully sculpted archways and statues reach upwards. It’s breathtaking, and Miria can’t help but stare. At the top of the stonework an enormous headless statue bends, pouring from an empty vase with two delicate hands. Miria’s eyes travel downwards. A monstrous, ancient-looking skull sits atop the altar. When she sees it, a horrible feeling of terror drapes itself upon her.

Crouched in front of the altar, with her dress welled up around her bent form, is a woman dressed all in white. She clutches a gold pendant within her small hands. Her thin fingers circle around it as she recites a prayer.

"Remain wary of the frailty of men. Their wills are weak, minds young.  
Were it not for fear, death would go unlamented.  
Seek the old blood."

“Hilda…” Miria whispers. Her mouth is dry, and she can taste rust on her tongue from where she had been biting her lip. Her heart beats painfully in her chest. She takes a few wavering steps forward.

"Let us pray, let us wish... to partake in communion.  
Let us partake in communion... and feast upon the old blood.  
Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears."

Hilda’s voice cracks and breaks as she chants the words. She rocks back and forth gently, stroking the gold pendant that she clutches with unsteady fingers.

“Hilda… why?” Miria whispers. She draws closer, her leather boots echoing softly in the great hall. Still, Hilda remains kneeling, huddled over herself. Some of her pale, shoulder-length hair falls out from beneath the pure white covering atop her lowered head.

"Seek the old blood."  
"The foul beasts will dangle nectar and lure the meek into the depths."  
"Remain wary of the frailty of men..."

Hilda’s voice trails off, so that only her shaking breath remains to cut the painful silence in two. Miria hasn’t stopped moving slowly forward. As she nears, Hilda all too slowly raises her head.

“Miria...?”

Miria reaches out with her free hand. Her fingers touch the back of Hilda’s head, and as her palm slides downwards, to rest upon Hilda’s shoulder, she feels the warmth of her skin from beneath the thin fabric.

 

* * *

 

Miria opens her eyes. The sun is shining in through a crack in the heavy curtains. It was almost too bright to bear, but Miria kept her eyes open. Hilda has slid out of bed, and the sunlight glints off her naked thighs. Miria pushes herself up sleepily as a small smile creeps across her features.

“It’s still early, you could come back to bed, for a little while longer,” Miria murmurs. The sheets are warm, and they feel good against her skin as she flexes and stretches her muscles.

Hilda doesn’t look back, but there’s a certain playfulness in her voice as she replies, “If I went back to bed now, I’d never get up again.”

Miria laughs and pushes herself up, sitting in bed and idly watching as Hilda pulls a white dress out from the large oak cabinet at the other end of the room.

“Maybe that would be a good thing,” Miria says, more seriously than she had meant to, and in the saying of it, she finds her resolve to continue, “It doesn’t seem right for Yharnam’s best hunter to leave for the church.”

Hilda has the dress over her head, and as she pulls it down Miria can’t help but notice how well it fits her. The fabric a white more blinding than the sun’s ray. It hurts to look for too long.

“Vicar is a preeminent position. I’ll be able to do so much more than I can do now. I’ll actually be able to help people,” Hilda turns, her expression somber, “We’ve talked about this.”

“I know,” Miria says, forcing herself out of bed so that she can pull on her trousers. “I’m sorry,” she adds, “I just... don’t want you to go.”

Hilda comes to her then, and raises her hand so that her cool fingers trail across Miria’s collarbone. The touch sets Miria’s skin aflame.

“I won’t be far,” Hilda whispers, leaning closer, “You’ll be fine, won’t you?” Hilda’s lips brush against the tender skin at Miria’s neck.

“I remember everything you’ve taught me,” Miria replies with a quiet strength. Her hands rise, and she runs her fingers through Hilda’s shoulder-length hair. “Everything,” she repeats. Her words spoken in solemn finality.

 

* * *

 

Nothing moves within the cavernous cathedral. Even the candles low flames have stilled, as all sound dampens, hushing until there’s nothing save for Hilda’s shuddering breaths and Miria’s voice.

“I’m here now,” Miria whispers as her hand tightens around the hilt of her blade.. Her heart is racing, and it feels like the cathedral is falling apart all around her in silent slow motion, as if the Grand Cathedral itself could no longer bear the weight of the moment, sculpted stone and columns shattering to crash downwards.

But the cathedral is still standing, and Hilda hasn’t moved.

“Thank you,” Hilda’s final words are filled with overflowing emotion, and sound somehow filled with equal parts relief and despair. Hilda falls forward, and Miria pulls her hand back. A scream tears itself from Hilda’s throat. Pure white turns pure red as the Healing Church’s final Vicar arches her back and reaches a hand skyward.

Her fingers curl inwards as her human scream distorts, becomes louder and more visceral, until the force of it shatters the stained glass windows and sends Miria to one knee.

 

* * *

 

It’s the scream that Clare hears as she descends a spiral staircase. She stops, listening to the terrible shrieking howl as it echoes and fades against the dark stone.

She presses forward and reaches level ground. The cathedral’s crypt seems to have been reconstructed into a dungeon. Tombs and coffins have been stacked high to make room for makeshift cells, lit only by the light of the torch that Clare holds in one steady hand. The cells are mostly empty, but as Clare passes through the long hall she notices that a few contain corpses in various states of decay. Many of them are beasts, but Clare can recognize a few hunters lying in their own dried blood.

She doesn’t have the time to contemplate the scene, because it’s then that she hears the sound of distant, choking sobs. As she nears the end of the hallway, the sobbing gets louder, and when she passes through the doorway she finds herself in a large, dark cell.

The dancing flames from her torch cast the entire room in a coppery glow, and when Clare manages to focus her sight on the figure before her, her pale eyes widen.

“Please…” The voice is harsh and rough, with a strange, inhuman tone that burns like smoke in Clare’s throat.

Clare takes a sudden step back. The torch falls from her hand and drops to the ground.

“...Kill me.”


	6. Penance

_ We have all been here before. In limbo. In eternal wait. We are each and every one of us alone, silent in our suffering, bearing the harshness of this world without question; funnelling the vast overflowing sickness into ourselves. And we think, this is just what we deserve.  _

_ We could have kept going like this. Never stopping or slowing down. Forever. _

_ But then we see one another. Low lights glimmering in the darkness. And as we draw near, the feeling of the other’s despair breaks the spell. Awoken by another's sorrow, we see this cruel world for what it truly is. _

_ And we realize that we are not alone. _

 

* * *

The torch flame licks the stone floor, and dim light flickers against the windowless walls of the cell, causing shadows to expand and distort. The light, coming from such a low angle, shines in unnatural ways against Clare’s face. It shows every rough angle and edge in her features as she stares in awestruck silence at the figure before her.

It’s too much to take in all at once.

In front of Clare hangs a figure, shackled at her arms in the center of the room, raised so that her feet only barely brush against the floor. Blood infusers, too many to count, are lined up all around her, with thick, hollowed out tubes stuck in to the bulging veins at her forearms and wrists, and along the backs of her hands. 

A ruined hunter’s cloak and cap lay at her feet. She had been a hunter once. Now, she’s something far beyond even the wolfish transformations Clare is accustomed to. Her skin is pallid, wet with sweat, and appears almost translucent. She breathes in slow, shuddering breaths. Her face still carries human features, and strands of pale hair fall into her deep blue eyes.

But it’s her wings that Clare can’t stop staring at. They most closely resemble butterfly wings, with upper and lower halves that are covered in an intricate pattern of vein-like fibers. The wing tips are pointed, with sinewy fibers extending from the edges. The fibers float in the air or attach to the ceiling above, so that it looks like it’s no longer the shackles that hold her in place, but her own transformation that binds her.

“Please…”

The word falls like frosty silk upon Clare’s racing heart. Bestial, but somewhere deeper there’s a pure sound; thick with honor. A solitary plea. A final request. Somehow, despite everything, the transformed hunter has managed to keep her mind. Clare can’t help but see the look in her eyes, and she thinks how those eyes might have been kind, had they not been filled with terror.

One of Clare’s hands slides to rest on the grip of her pistol.  The creature before her seems to notice the slight movement, and she lets her head tilt back. Her eyes close slowly, and a true smile breaks out upon her cracked lips.

“With this… I can die human,” the woman’s words drift down through the air like so many withered leaves.

Clare takes a step forward. And then another. She raises to the tips of her toes, and her hand leaves her pistol as she reaches out into the darkness. When her fingers touch the transformed hunter’s pale cheeks, Clare doesn’t flinch as those otherworldly cobalt-blue eyes open wide to stare back at her.

“Turn back,” Clare’s own voice sounds harsh to her. Sandpaper rough, and biting like spirits poured over an open wound. The words leave Clare’s lips before she has time to think. 

The creature stares at her with an entirely new sense of terror.

“What… are you saying? There’s no way...” 

“Turn back. You can do it,” Clare’s simple statement opens up the world between the two of them. She raises her other hand, holding the creature’s head; forcing her to keep her gaze; preventing her from looking away.

“I can’t…” The creature sobs the words, choking out the syllables in a messy display of emotion. “Please, let me die a human.”

“You’re not going to die at all,” Clare whispers, leaning forward. Their foreheads touch, and Clare lets her eyes close slowly. Despite her pale complexion, the life form before her has a familiar warmth, and, in their closeness, Clare can hear the sound of her breathing, and feel the rapid pulse of her wild heart. 

“Turn back,” Clare whispers powerfully, and she’s not even talking to the eerily captivating figure before her now, but to the hunter trapped inside. The hunter that had once been. The hunter that was lost.

The transformed hunter’s breathing becomes ragged and panicked. She slams her eyes shut. Her long fingers twitch, and Clare suddenly feels a great well of power. It rises up like an enormous wave, and as it crashes down upon the two of them, a blinding blue-white light explodes outward and fills the cell with light. Clare loses sight of her. All that’s left is the sound of the other’s ear-splitting scream as it arcs and echoes against the walls.

The force of the power between them sends Clare flying backward. She skids along the floor, slowing herself with one hand. When she comes to a stop, she pulls her head up sharply.

Clare will never forget the first time she truly saw her. The hunter who had come back from her transformation. The shackles are broken, and she has fallen to the ground, down on one knee, with a blood-stained hand splayed out in front of her. Her ashen hair is slicked back, with strands falling across her dark eyes. She lifts her head slowly, looking at Clare with a deep, unknowable expression.

“Thank you,” she says, in a clearer and higher-pitched voice than before. The words echo in Clare’s ears, sinking and spiraling down into the depths of her heart. 

There’s a pause as they look into each other’s eyes. The tense desperation of the moment flickers and fades. 

“How did you…” The woman asks slowly, refusing to take her eyes off Clare as Clare forces herself into action, pulling her own cloak off her shoulders. She steps forward and drapes the cloak around the hunter’s slender, naked back.

“I don’t know,” Clare says stiffly, “Are you okay?” The words sound dead and robotic to Clare’s own ears, and she purses her lips as she stands in frozen awkwardness before her.

“I’m Jean,” the hunter replies as she slowly pushes herself up to her feet. She grits her teeth, looking pained as she moves one step forward, favoring one leg. She raises a hand out to catch her balance, and Clare finds her hand with her own, guiding Jean to hold on to her shoulder.

“Clare,” Clare says quietly, looking away as she reaches into her pack with her free hand. The sound of clinking glass fills the room as she rummages for a blood vial not yet empty, but Jean gently shakes her head.

“Blood won’t work.” Jean’s words are strained, “Not after what they did to me.” Clare becomes acutely aware of Jean’s hand, heavy and warm upon her own shoulder, and the way her fingers feel as she grasps taut muscle beneath thin fabric. 

“I’ll manage without,” Jean murmurs, and it’s another slow stillness as the moment swells. Clare tries to focus, to move forward, but she can’t find the path before her. Her own senses feel interrupted; overwhelmed.

A distant screech rushes into the room; overflowing with madness and rattling with despair. It pulls at Clare’s heart, and she looks up swiftly.

“That’s my mark,” Clare’s words are confident now, as she forces every other feeling back down in submission to her own powerful will. “You’ll find safety in Oedon Chapel, at the bottom of the steps.”

“I’m coming with you,” Jean says softly, bowing her head as she moves towards the corner of the room. She reaches down, and the glint of the dying torch’s flame against steel catches Clare’s eye. Jean holds a beautifully crafted two-handed sword, and draped as she is in nothing but Clare’s long, dark cloak, she is truly striking.

“You don’t have to follow me,” Clare replies forcefully, but her resolve hits hesitation as Jean’s determined eyes stare back, and the sword hunter’s parted lips curve into a small smile.

“I won’t slow you down,” Jean replies with a short exactness that seems to settle the matter, and, with their conversation at an end, she bows low, with one hand out in front of her, performing a perfectly executed hunter’s salute. 

Clare purses her lips. There certainly isn’t time to argue. Unceremoniously, she heads out of the cell, and behind her, she can hear Jean’s footsteps, and the sound of her cloak as it flows in the air. They ascend the steps, back the way Clare had come.

The doors to the Grand Cathedral’s enormous main room are closed, but that doesn’t stop the cacophonous sounds of monstrous screeching breaths, rapid movements, and the crashing of weight upon stone. Clare rushes forward, pushing the doors open with a calculated burst of strength. 

It’s the hunter-knight that Clare sees first. 

“Miria!” Clare calls out to her, her voices ringing throughout the Cathedral, past the shattered windows and out into the night sky. 

Miria glances back, but she doesn’t have time for more than that. She darts sideways, behind a wide column, moving with a swift elegance that seems fitting for her. Her short sword rests loosely in one hand, but Clare realizes that her other arm hangs limply at her side, and blood drips down her gloved fingers.

Miria darts out from behind a pillar, and then takes a quick backward step that Clare finds somewhat odd. Clare takes a step forward, preparing to rush in, but Jean grabs her shoulder.

It’s then that the giant fist, twice Miria’s size, descends from above, right where Miria had been standing only a moment before. The fist looks deformed, covered in blood-matted white fur, with long, black claws that curl inward. Blood-tinged white bandages wrap around the clawed fist, and up around long, bony wrists and thin arms.  Pure white fur hangs tangled from the gigantic beast’s torso, and as Clare lifts her gaze upwards, she can’t help but agree with the old adage. The members of the church transform into the most hideous beasts. The beast’s wolfish jaws unhinge, sporting razor-sharp fangs as a boundless cry is unleashed.

Clare extends her saw blade with a bone-shattering crack and pulls her pistol to the ready, vaguely aware of the sound of Jean’s heavy blade swinging to rest on her companion’s shoulder. Miria crouches low, face concealed within shadow as her grip steadies. 

There would be no turning back. Not from this.


	7. Struggle

Hilda, once proud Vicar for the Healing Church, raises her wolfish head upwards to release a shuddering howl. Her ragged breaths become a thick vapor in the chilling night air. In one massive, beastly hand she still clutches the golden pendant. Despite the high ceilings of the Grand Cathedral, she is too tall to stand at full height, and so she sits low on her haunches. Her white dress, drenched in her own blood, hangs atop her head like a veil. She pulls her free arm back, and then thrusts it forward, low enough to the ground that her long, black claws send sparks flying against the stone.

The orange sparks shine upon Clare’s steadfast expression as she dodges backward, and, without a pause, presses hard against a pillar behind her, sending her forward. The serrated blade of her saw cleaver meets beastly flesh, and, as the Hunters of the workshop so designed, it cuts deeply into the beast's hind leg.

 _Too greedy._ A small voice in Clare’s head chides as she realizes she hasn’t left herself with an escape route. As Hilda raises her fist, all Clare can do is ready herself for the blow. But the attack never comes. Through the flowing strands of Hilda’s white fur, Clare spots Jean as she falls through the air, arcing her colossal sword overhead and slamming it down into the beast’s other leg.

Hilda screams, falling forward and yet still managing to catch herself with her free hand. She holds the pendant close, bowing her head as her breathing becomes rapid. A mysterious golden energy shines forth from her center. Thin filaments of light trail upwards, casting a warm glow as the air around them sings with the sound of otherworldly magic.

“Don’t let her heal!” Jean barks, pulling her sword back as if to thrust. But it’s too late. Hilda jumps backward, and now there’s too much distance between them.

“She’s fast,” Clare murmurs breathlessly. She glances back behind her as she tracks Hilda with a wide berth. Miria is nowhere to be found. Clare sets her jaw and rushes forward, heart pounding with a desperate need to end this fight quickly.

But her impatience doesn’t do her any favors, and it’s only too late that she realizes her error. Hilda was waiting for her, long arms stretched wide, and as soon as Clare is in range the beast closes the distance, slamming her claws closed and capturing Clare within her powerful grasp.

The sudden impact sends the air thundering out of Clare’s chest, forcing a guttural scream out from beneath gritted teeth. Hilda’s claws are sharp and hard, and she can feel the pointed tips of them pressing against her back.

“Clare!” Jean’s voice, distant and passionate, rings out in the open air. She can vaguely feel the quaking vibrations of Jean’s sword as she swings it against Hilda’s forearms, drawing blood but no screams from the transformed Vicar.

“Damn it,” Clare curses between ragged breaths. She struggles to free her arms, but there’s no give as Hilda’s grip only tightens further. Clare slams her eyes shut, willing herself not to think about the feeling of her bones as they threaten to crack. Her head feels light, and she’s having trouble seeing clearly as everything drains away, fading to nothing.

_You can’t die here._

Teresa’s voice is calm and clear. The sound of it brings Clare back to the lake. Teresa is laying on her elbows in the grass, her legs rest lazily before her. Her eyes are closed. She’s enjoying the overpowering warmth of the summer sun.

“Teresa?” Clare hears herself speak. Her voice echoes in her mind, and she sounds as she had back then. Younger. Lighter. Happier.

_Clare, don’t you remember?_

Memories suddenly flood through Clare. In a dark forest, Teresa, falling to her knees to embrace Clare’s small frame. Walking hand in hand through an unknown town, looking up into a blue, cloudless sky. A campfire on a cool night. The sound of Teresa's gentle hum as Clare drifted off to sleep.

“I do remember,” Clare responds simply, overwhelmed by the tumultuous cascade of memories falling one atop the other. Piling up at the very core of her, like fish out of water, gasping for air and struggling to break free.

 _Live, Clare._ Teresa's voice echoes hauntingly, and it's then that the light changes, going both somehow colder and brighter at the same time.

_Keep the memories alive._

Clare can feel a ripple of desperate anxiety course through her. The lake stills, and the color of it changes from a crystalline blue to a deep, opaque red.

“I… I don’t know what to do,” Clare responds helplessly as she looks upwards. What she had thought was the sun is actually a very bright moon. How had she not noticed it before? But Teresa remains the same, unmoving, and a smile crosses her lips.

_Just keep going._

Clare looks down, and her hands aren't hands. They're claws, and they drip with fresh blood.

 

* * *

 

From Jean’s perspective, it had all happened so fast. In one moment, she had been desperately swinging her sword against the beast’s forearm, trying to cause enough damage to stagger her so that she might drop her quarry. In the next moment, Clare’s scream increased in pitch and intensity, and a blast of blue energy sent her flying back.

Jean grimaces tearfully as she raises her sword, recklessly charging forward; throwing caution to the wind. Before she can lunge, Hilda’s hands split apart, and as dark red blood flies in all directions, a beast falls heavily to the ground.

Jean’s eyes widen as she realizes that the beast is Clare.

Clare’s gruesome transformation has left her with a long, ashen mane of tangled hair that trails downwards, long enough to hang before her eyes and down her back. Her arms have elongated, and thick, matted pale fur covers her overly large, clawed hands. But it's her eyes that are perhaps the most compelling aspect of her transformation. A beast's wild eyes, glowing a blown out vermilion, with thin, black slit-shaped pupils in the center

Hilda falls forward, unable to support her weight. Her jaw hits the ground, and Clare doesn’t hesitate. She lunges forward, pulling Hilda’s snout forward as she sends a fist of razor-sharp claws under and upwards.

Clare falls to one knee as Hilda pulls back in pain. The Vicar leans backwards unsteadily, pressing the golden pendant to her heaving chest. The golden glow burns into view.

Jean curses, rushing forward. It would never end if they couldn’t stop her from healing. And eventually, in this war of attrition, they wouldn’t survive.

A spherical glass vial flies through the air overhead. Jean notices it just before it hits the ground in front of Hilda’s feet. It breaks upon impact and a bluish smoke rises upwards. As soon as the smoke touches Hilda, the healing glow fades. Startled, she takes a step back, raising her head to growl.

Miria rests heavily against a pillar, another glass vial held tightly in her hand. Her expression is harsh, nearly unreadable as she looks out across the cathedral at Hilda.

 _Now’s my chance._ Jean says to herself as she jumps upwards, and in one swift motion she uses a pillar to change directions, descending above Hilda at a rapid speed. She turns her sword downward mid-air, and grasps the hilt with both hands as she sends it sinking into Hilda’s shoulder.

Hilda’s scream is cut short as she falls forward. In her final moment, she reaches outward, and her shivering, outstretched claw looks suddenly so fragile as she extends it across the Grand Cathedral's great hall. The pendant rolls out of her open, unmoving claw. Hilda’s broken body fades away in an explosion of small, glowing particles, almost like fireflies being taken by a strong breeze. The glowing points swirl around Miria as she walks slowly forward, grimacing in pain as she bends down to pick the pendant up in her hands.

“It’s over,” she whispers under her breath as she bows her head and her long, pale hair falls across her face.

Jean sheathes her sword, watching in silence, but the requiem is cut short by a shaking voice.

“Turn.. back...”

All Jean can think is that Clare’s bestial voice is still Clare’s, and as she turns she sees Clare on her hands and knees, head bent low to the blood-streaked stone, wild eyes shut tight, claws curled into tight fists.

Miria turns, and slowly she unsheathes her short sword, saying nothing.

“Turn back, damn you,” Clare growls through gritted teeth as sends her fist into the stone with a thundering slam.

Jean doesn’t need to think about it. Before she even knows what she’s doing, she runs towards Clare; the sound of her heavy sword clattering against the ground echoing with metallic emptiness.

 _Don’t worry, Clare._ Jean's thoughts burn as she closes in. _This time, it’s my turn._


	8. Shatter

“Wait!”

Jean’s desperate voice echoes in the empty expanse of the Grand Cathedral like the toll of a bell. 

Miria, short sword gripped tightly in one hand, stops and slowly turns her head. The frown tugging at her lips gives way to a scowl as she knits her brows, and she might have seemed unyielding in that moment, if not for her trembling lips.

“Wait for her to lose her humanity? I think  _ not _ ,” Miria spits back as she turns away and shortens the distance between her and Clare’s hunched over form. Jean has to do everything in her power to keep running, ignoring the violent protests of her aching body.

“No! She can turn back,” Jean shouts. Her ears are ringing now, and the blood is rushing up hard into her head. Dizziness overwhelms her, and as she lunges for Miria’s hand she feels faint, her lunge becoming more of a stumble as she grabs the other woman’s shoulder.

Miria catches Jean roughly, steadying her only long enough to push her away, but the atmosphere changes as grief colors the hunter-knight’s features. She lowers her sword, and forces her gaze downward.

“It’s not… possible,” Miria says painfully, clutching Hilda’s pendant tightly in her hand. 

“She can do it,” Jean’s voice is distant. She’s already focused her sights on Clare, moving towards her at a rapid pace. 

“Don’t…” But Miria’s words die upon arrival and her expression hardens as she turns her head away. “Don’t do something you’ll regret.”

“I’d say the same to you,” Jean murmurs, eyeing Miria’s short sword warily for a moment before returning her gaze to Clare, who hasn’t yet seemed to notice her approach, or is willfully ignoring her.

Jean reaches Clare, standing before her for a moment before lowering herself swiftly to one knee, and without thinking about it, she reaches out to put her hands upon Clare’s muscular, fur-bristling shoulders.

Jean’s touch snaps Clare out of whatever trance she had been in, and her hungry eyes flash in the light of the moon as she fixes her gaze upon her. Red, bloodshot, with black slits like a cat’s, Jean can’t help but be drawn in, but still, despite everything, those eyes are Clare’s eyes.

“Clare,” Jean breathes out, her expression both collected and determined. 

Clare’s wild eyes almost seem to widen, and her body shudders as if she might suddenly break free from Jean’s grip. Her breathing becomes even more ragged. She lifts her arms and it’s only when Jean can feel Clare’s pointed claws sinking slowly into her upper back that she realizes that even if she wanted to back out of this, there’d be no way to do so now. 

“Are you... sure about this?” Miria’s panicked voice comes in waves at the corner of Jean’s perception. 

“Come  _ on _ , Clare,” Jean whispers insistently, biting back a gasp through gritted teeth as Clare’s claws cut deeper, and she can feel the bitter air, cold against the blood dripping down her back. 

Clare’s wiry fur stings against Jean’s forehead as she leans closer, and now she’s close enough to nearly hear Clare’s ferocious heart thumping madly from beneath her heaving chest, and feel her heaving breaths, hot against her bare neck. Jean tries to get closer, but Clare’s embrace is beyond limiting, and the pain is starting to catch up to Jean, and there’s… a wateriness at the corners of her eyes that she hasn’t felt in a long time. She slams her eyes shut, and the tears drop down along her cheeks.

“Damn it,” she breathes, and for a moment she can’t hold on to her hope. She can feel the fingertips of all those other hunters, her companions, slipping from her grasp, crushed between the gears of the hunt, or lost to their own nightmares. Jean had felt something, down in the dungeon. Something she hadn’t felt in so,  _ so  _ long.  _ Would it always end like this? _

A blue light flickers into existence at Jean’s center, and explodes blindingly into the hall.

 

* * *

When Clare opens her eyes, she’s somewhere else. She tries to look around, but no landmark stands out, and somehow, everything seems to bleed together and blur, so that not only can she not pinpoint her exact location, but she can’t even tell if the place she’s in is even real. 

She looks down at her hands. They’re back to normal, and cleaner than she can remember them ever being, bereft of any dirty smudge or bloody stain. As her gaze focuses, she can see her forearm, clean and lean, with muscles and veins running along her wrist and up towards her elbow. She realizes she’s not wearing her hunter’s attire at all, but is dressed rather simply in a tunic and loose-fitting pair of trousers. Her feet are bare.

_ Clare. _

The voice comes from behind her. She’s so used to this now. The sound of her name. The sound of Teresa’s voice. 

“Clare.”

But it’s  _ not  _ Teresa’s voice this time. Slowly, hesitantly, Clare turns.

Jean stands before her, not but a few meters away. Clare sees her face first. The serious expression she holds within those quiet, pale eyes, and the way her short bangs fall across her forehead. A feeling pulls at Clare from deep within, a gentle tug that sends her stumbling backward into her own heart. Jean’s body is unclothed, but Clare doesn’t find herself surprised by this. In fact, the more Clare stares, the more natural it becomes, and Clare can’t help it as her eyes wander along the wonderful harmony of soft skin and firm muscle.

_ I never realized how beautiful she was. _

The feeling is pure, and she allows the thought to envelope her as she stands there. But as soon as the thought forms, Jean lowers her eyes... and she smiles.

_ Did she just… hear me? _ Clare’s thought explodes in her mind, confused and a little panicked.

Jean looks up, and nods simply.

_ That’s… I don’t… What’s going on? _

“Don’t ask questions,” Jean’s words leave her lips, and it’s almost like Clare can feel the soft surety of Jean’s voice as it reaches her, calming her so that she’s not startled when Jean moves forward, closing the distance between them. 

_ If I reached out now, I could almost touch her.  _ Clare’s thoughts invade the silence. When Jean smiles, she remembers too late that Jean can hear her, and her face starts to get hot in her cheeks and her neck, yet it’s not a feeling of embarrassment or panic, but something more sincere.

Jean’s knowing smile persists, growing in tenderness as she reaches out and takes Clare’s hand in both of her own, leading Clare’s fingertips to her muscular shoulder. Jean’s skin feels cool and soft, and Clare’s throat closes up, going dry as her heart plummets in her chest.

_ How long had it been since she had felt this close to someone?  _ She wonders, forgetting herself again as Jean guides her hand downwards so that her palm caresses the other woman’s powerful upper arm. 

“Too long,” Jean’s whispers simply, her reply washing over Clare, and this time Clare doesn’t care that Jean is replying to her own thoughts. What had just recently been a cause for concern is starting to feel so right, as if there were nothing more natural than this flowing exchange between them. Two streams, mingling together, crossing over smooth stones, winding into the sunlight.

Jean’s chest rises and falls softly as Clare’s hand tracks downward, along her forearm, and then their hands meet again, their fingertips intertwining. Clare catches a glint of light as Jean parts her lips, and her tongue darts out for a moment to moisten them. 

Clare feels a surge of electric heat in her gut, and she acts, grip tightening around Jean’s hand as she pulls the other woman towards her. Her other hand rises to catch her by the shoulder, fingertips sliding around the back of her neck, thumb against her collarbone. A possessive embrace, and it very nearly starles Jean, so that her smile falters, transforming into something much more primitive. Lips parted, teeth glinting, a small, startled moan escapes her, and Clare leans in, tilting her head up and pressing her lips against Jean’s jaw.

Jean’s fingers tighten around Clare’s own, and the taller woman raises her hand up to rest heavily upon Clare’s lower back.

_ I need you.  _  Clare’s hungry thought cuts deeply. There’s a harsh hint of savagery there, in the back of her mind. A beast in a cage, howling for freedom, causing her heart to pound. She wants to set it free. 

Jean presses her hand downwards. Strong fingers capturing Clare’s ass within a firm grip, pulling her closer. Clare shudders, pressing into the touch. Jean tilts her head down, and Clare can’t help but moan into their kiss. Jean lips are soft and confident. Clare’s own lips are insatiable and unyielding.

Jean is the first one to break the kiss, as she leans back and looks into Clare’s eyes. Clare stares back, trying to find her breath, trying desperately to control her emotions as they cascade around and through her.

“Please don’t leave,” Jean’s trembling voice echoes in Clare’s head. It’s a strange thing for her to say, and Clare can’t help but wonder exactly what she means. 

_ Leaving? No one’s leaving.  _ Clare’s slow thoughts empty out of her mind and drip down her throat. They’re bitter. Unsure. And in that moment, Jean’s presence flickers, and Clare feels as if her hands almost fall through the other woman’s form, if only for a moment.

_ Jean?!  _

But Jean’s only smiling miserably now, and she shakes her head.

“It’s okay, Clare. It’s going to be okay,” Jean says quietly, but her skin is getting pale and transparent, and in the next moment Clare realizes she can almost see through her.

_ No. No... no, no no. This isn’t happening. This isn’t real. _

Before Jean’s body can fade away completely, Clare slams her eyes shut. The world around her trembles, and she cries out in pain as everything shatters, and now she’s the one shattering. Shattering and falling, falling, falling, downward through empty darkness.

 

* * *

When Clare opens her eyes, she draws a harsh breath in. The cold air is bitter and painful as it passes into her lungs. 

If she had been aware of it, she would have noticed that her body had transformed back into a human’s, covered in blood and sweat, muscles achingly sore, with her hunter’s attire nearly in tatters. She would have seen Miria, standing there with her sword at her feet, eyes wide, mouth agape. She might have even noticed the beastly skull sitting atop the Grand Cathedral’s opulent altar.

But all she saw was Jean. 

Jean, who had fallen forward into her arms. Jean’s back, covered in bloody claw marks. Jean’s hair, covering her eyes. 

Jean, who was breathing, however faintly. 

Clare’s heart roars, and she takes the wounded hunter up into her arms. She lifts her, standing only due to force of sheer will. Jean’s head rests against her chest, and Clare glances down at her for a moment before she turns to face the large double doors that mark the Cathedral’s exit.

“It’s going to be okay,” she whispers under shaking breaths.


	9. Caesura

_You’ll be fine, won’t you, Miria?_

No, I won’t be fine. I can’t do this alone. You don’t know how bad things went. After you left, everything went straight to hell. I slept for days. I couldn’t eat. The Hunter Chief started asking about me. They came looking. I had to lie about what happened. How could I tell them the truth?

Why did you pick _me_? Surely, there had to be someone more promising; some Church hunter in training who could have kept up with you. You chose me; brought me into your world; a world I could never step away from. You taught me everything, and the worst part is that it still wasn’t enough. That’s not your fault. I’m not blaming you. The scars and the cuts and the scratches and the bruises aren’t your fault. That’s just how I managed to survive.

_I won’t be far._

Hearing your voice makes me sick with regret. It happened so fast. Your decision; my indecision. I should have taken the time to talk to you. I should have listened. You said you wouldn’t be far, but you couldn’t have been further from the truth. And now, without a doubt, you’re gone, and I’m still here.

The pendant is cold and dead in my hands. I can’t bring myself to open it.

 

* * *

 

“What happened back there?”

Helen is breathless. Her words blast through Clare’s psyche, scattering feelings around her like wasted debris. Clare’s own arms feel so light now. So cold and empty without the warmth and weight of Jean’s body to hold her in place.

The sword hunter looks almost peaceful, laying upon one of the many altars in Oedon Chapel’s narthex, with her eyes closed and her expression one of tranquility. The slow rise and fall of her chest persists, time marching ever forward with each strong breath. The sight of Jean’s breathing relaxes Clare, and for the first time in hours, she’s aware of her own breathing. She lets out a shaking sigh, the muscles in her neck and shoulders relaxing for a moment, but then she notices her cloak, nearly soaked with Jean’s dark blood, and the sight of claw marks flashes into Clare’s mind like an electric shock.

“There was a beast,” Clare speaks quietly and quickly, turning her head away from Jean while also refusing to make eye contact with a very obviously staring Helen, and it’s not lost on her how silly she must look as she suddenly seems very interested in inspecting a bit of cracked stone at the tip of her boot. “We killed it.”

Helen stares at her for a second longer, head tilting slightly to one side and brows raising in what could only be taken as an ‘are you kidding me’ expression.

“Okay, yeah, I gathered that much. Now, exactly what happened? And where’s Miria?”

“Miria...” As Clare speaks the name, it echoes hollow against the stone walls surrounding her; closing in on her, until all she can hear is the pounding of the blood in her head. She looks up so that damp strands of pale hair fall past her eyes and behind her ears.

Miria, who, after Clare managed to revert from her transformation, had retrieved her own fallen sword from the ground to sheathe it with one shaking hand. Miria, who had said nothing as Clare lifted Jean into her arms. Miria, standing impossibly still as Clare had made to move towards the exit.

_Miria! I won’t leave you here..._

Clare’s own voice flows through the memory, piercing and shrill, just like her nerves in that moment. She had turned to look back. Was it the curl of Miria’s lips, or was it the way her eyes narrowed as if in pain that had caused Clare to feel a sudden sense of dread?

_You don’t have time to argue, Clare._

And of course, Miria had been right.

“Miria wanted to stay behind.” Clare responds evenly, but forcing herself to keep calm doesn’t erase the pain or the panic.

“Damn. Well, I’m glad you made it back at least,” Helen’s bright voice lifts the mood, and Clare looks at her, appreciating the smile that crosses the other woman’s features. “And you brought a new friend. Chapel’s gonna start feeling all cozy, eh?”

“Jean. She... saved my life.” Clare speaks as if to herself, and as the name flows off her tongue, she suddenly remembers it all over again. Had it been a dream? A memory? She didn’t even really know what to call it. She remembers the smell of Jean’s hair. It had smelled like the ocean.

When had she last seen the ocean?

“She’ll be fine. We hunters tend to bounce back fairly well. Just ask Deneve.”

“How is she?” Clare asks quickly, feeling all at once horribly selfish for not having asked sooner.

“Still recovering. Can’t walk yet. Real pain in my ass,” Helen says, grinning.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” Clare murmurs, but Helen just shrugs.

“Honestly? I prefer this to being out there. I was never cut out to be a hunter,” Helen pauses, gauging Jean’s current restful state, and then she turns and moves further down the hall. Clare follows.

“What else is there, other than hunting?” Clare asks hastily, searchingly.

Helen looks behind her shoulder and gives a short laugh. “You’re really something.”

Helen stops walking, and bends down. Wrapped in a blanket, leaning up against the wall, is Deneve. Her eyes are closed, and her eyelids twitch as if within a dream. She looks pale and thin, and the light from the candles around them paints her sweaty forehead and neck with an eerie translucence.

Helen runs the back of her hand along Deneve’s brow. The short-haired hunter turns her head, and one eye opens, half-lidded with groggy pain.

“Hi Doc,” Deneve’s words escape her like a sigh.

“If I’m the doctor, you’re in trouble,” Helen manages a smile, and Clare kneels down. Deneve’s eyes find her.

“I don’t mind trouble…” Deneve mumbles, and her voice trails off. She’s exhausted, and Clare shifts her weight uneasily as she watches Helen stand back up. Helen’s eyes are cast in shadow; her lips pressed together tightly.

“Let’s go outside.”

 

* * *

 

Wind blows through Clare’s hair as she leans against the railing on the balcony. She looks up into the night’s sky. The changed sky, deepening further into evening’s abyss, with night’s dawn leading the way to a purpling sky, and yet lit by moon that has, if anything, only grown larger and lower.

“I’m going back for Miria.”

The words leave Clare’s lips like a sigh, and in the saying of them, she finds a certain amount of peace, with panic subsiding and transforming into a keen sense of purpose. She clutches the thick stone railing, knuckles turning white from the pressure.

“I’d go with you, but…” Helen starts, voice trailing off as she, too, looks up into the sky in a distant sort of way, as if her mind were already elsewhere.

“No, I’ll go alone,” Clare pauses, takes a slow breath. “Could… could you watch over Jean for me?” Clare forces out the words, each one like heavy stone, skipping across a still black lake until finally dropping into the deep waters, and it’s then that she feels the full weight of her own persistent uneasiness.

What had she allowed to happen to her? She had been so good at keeping it together, up until now. How had she lost herself to these scant few moments of warmth, capturing the beauty of them through their brevity, and conjuring forth a relentless sense of duty, or obsessive need to fill a void she didn’t even know she had?

_Force it back down. You don’t have time for this._

“Sure thing,” Helen replies, pulling a hand through her shoulder-length hair. “I’m the Doc now, after all. Might as well act like it.”

“Thanks,”  her voice is low and rough and husky, and she pushes herself off against the railing as if stepping off a cliff’s edge. Her trajectory, set and locked in, carries her forward. “I’m leaving now.”

“I’ll get you some vials for the trip,” Helen responds, taken in by Clare’s own force of personality; persuaded by her seriousness. “Stay safe, okay?”

 

* * *

 

The Cathedral is already empty when Clare arrives. The emptiness of it sends Clare’s stomach into knots, but she walks forward anyway, towards the altar at the far end of the long hall, forcing herself not to look down as she crosses over the dried blood smeared across the floor.

She had seen the skull on the altar before, during the battle with Hilda, and afterwards. It was a beast’s skull, large and deformed, with a depression behind the right eye. The shadows with the eyes and the bone-splintered cavity were darkness personified, and as Clare approached she felt that familiar sense of dread coursing through her blood.

She hadn’t meant to touch it. In fact, she had been unaware of her arm raising and her fingers extending until the very last moment. Her silver eyes widen, but it’s too late to pull back.

The bone is surprisingly warm as her fingertips make contact, and yet a chill still runs down her spine. She can feel the hairs raising on her forearms and the back of her neck. Everything within her is telling her to pull away, but she’s only moving closer, and her palm is upon the yellowed skull’s forehead.

 

* * *

 

A figure in a hooded cloak stands in the doorway of a darkened room, lit only by the light from a dying fire.

_“I’ve come to bid you farewell.”_

A woman, robed all in black and white, stands facing the fireplace. Long, pale hair falls down across her shoulders. A black blindfolded cap sits atop her head; the traditional covering indicating her status of a high-ranking cleric. She smiles, and speaks.

_"Here we stand, feet planted in the earth, but might the cosmos be very near us, only just above our heads?"_

_“Galatea.”_

_“I know. You think now, to betray me.”_

_“No, but you will never listen. I will not forget our adage.”_

_“We are born of the blood, made men by the blood, undone by the blood. Our eyes are yet to open..."_

_“Fear the old blood,”_ both women speak together in unison.

 

* * *

 

Clare opens her eyes as if waking from a dream. The vision is gone, and she’s back in the Grand Cathedral. Alone.


	10. Recission

Clare almost doesn’t notice her. A hunter, dressed all in black, standing motionless in the shadows of the Cathedral’s Wards large central fountain in the outer courtyard. She might have strode right on by, if she hadn’t seen that slight raising of her head.

It was her hat, black as midnight and pointed at the top, and around the front the long, pointed beak of a crow. The beak covered almost her entire face, with only two thin slits for her eyes. She wore a long, flowing black dress that went down to her booted feet. The dress had a shawl, and what Clare had first thought was tattered cloth at the shoulders turned out to be so many black feathers, sewn along her shoulders and around the back of her covered neck.

She had lifted her head in Clare’s direction. Clare froze, and her hand went for her weapon instinctively. How had she been so quiet, allowing Clare to approach her so that they were now only a few meters away? And why did Clare feel so uneasy about what, for all purposes, must have been another hunter just like her?

From behind the mask, a muffled voice spoke. It was a rough voice. A patient voice. Older. Wise. Weary. The sound of it pulled at Clare in a strange way. 

“You don’t need to be afraid of me, hunter,” her voice was low and thick with a sense of hardened amusement. She chuckled, and it caught Clare so completely off guard that her hand left her weapon and she found herself just standing there. Staring. Unable to respond.

“That is, unless you lose your own self, and give rise to the corruption of bloodlust.,” she pauses, and Clare notices now that the crow-hunter’s black-gloved hands are holding a long, thin blade. Almost knifelike, beautifully curved and nearly shimmering in the moonlight. 

“If you lose yourself, I’ll release you from this nightmare,” she speaks, voice lowering substantially as the tips of her fingers stroke the pointed edge of the blade.

“A hunter of hunters…” Clare murmured the words out loud without realizing it, and then she remembers the name, “Irene.”

“So you’ve heard of me.”

“You’re… you kill humans. Hunters who’ve gone… bad.” Clare tightens her expression, setting her jaw as the memory of her own vicious transformation takes over once again. It was dangerous, for her to be around this particular hunter. 

And then Clare realized it was dangerous for her to be around  _ anyone _ .

“That’s one way to put it,” The crow-hunter remarks, voice scratching against Clare’s sense like sandpaper. “You don’t have the best way with words, do you?”

Clare can’t stop herself from frowning. 

“Who needs words?”

“Said like a true hunter,” and at this Clare can just feel the curve of the crow-hunter’s lips as she speaks those words smilingly. “You may just do well, if you can keep that brutal outlook.”

“I’m not here to do well,” Clare snaps back. Something about this conversation was bothering her. It was like she was a child, trying to communicate with an adult but without all the right words. “I’m here to…”

And there was the question again, rising up to boil from the surface, overflowing, exploding out of her heart. That same question, bursting forth to land upon her, pressing down on her with the weight of it. 

_ What was she here for? What was her purpose? She had thought she’d known. Now… _

“Your motives don’t interest me,” the crow-hunter says coolly. “What  _ interests  _ me,” she says this now, voice growing all the more focused and intense, “Is that you entered that Cathedral with  _ one  _ hunter, and came out with  _ another _ .”

Clare’s breathing stills. Slowly, she raises her head, and her silver eyes narrow. 

“I thought it odd,” the crow-hunter continues, her expression enshrouded behind the beaked mask, “Odd, such an exchange could take place.”

Now, the black-robed woman steps forward, long knife sliding back into its sheath. The only sound is that of her long dress, dragging along the stone as she approaches. Clare is nothing but a coiled bunch of muscles. Ready to flee. Or strike.

“Odd, that you would come back,” she murmurs, raising a delicate, gloved hand up with a calculated slowness. So painfully slow, and somehow almost gentle. Clare can’t make out her intentions. Her fingers touch at Clare’s tensed jaw.

“I’m watching you,” she whispers, as her fingers run along the line of Clare’s jaw, and downwards, the briefest shuddering stroke of her neck before her hand drops back down to her side. “Be careful.”

“Is that… a threat?” Clare’s own words sound stupid in comparison to the crow-hunter’s articulate display. But how could she speak with any eloquence with the way this mysterious hunter of hunters had captivated her so?

“A warning,” she replies softly. “You’re descending into treacherous waters, and I’d really rather not clean up your mess.”

“You don’t need to worry,” Clare says hastily. I’d end it before I let myself go mad.”

And with that, the crow-hunter’s mask turns. She’s looking away.

“That’s what they all say.”

 

* * *

 

Jean was waiting for her when she returned to Oedon Chapel. 

The sight of her, leaning up against the wall with her arms crossed and one knee bent so that her foot was raised to rest against the wall, set Clare’s heart aflame. She looked so used up, with her hair freshly slicked back, pulled behind her ears on the sides. There were dark bags under her eyes. She had found some clothing, choosing something simple and utilitarian. A brown tunic and pants. Her broad shoulders and muscular arms bared beneath the sleeveless semi-tight fabric. 

Clare gulped, hand resting nonchalantly upon the butt of her firearm. She wasn’t sure what to do. Or say. Jean’s body, the one from the dream, flashed into her mind and it was so inappropriate that she was again just completely disarmed.

“Good to see you, too,” Jean replied, with enough teasingly warm mirth that Clare let herself relax. Maybe things could be normal. Or, well, as normal as things  _ could  _ be.

“I went out to find Miria,” Clare replied shortly, removing her hand from her pistol, and then putting it right back again after a moment. Why did her hands seem to useless and out of place? Why was her throat as dry as sand?

“Helen told me,” she paused, “...Didn’t find her?”

“No,” she said simply, answering that subtle question.

“She might still be alive, then,” Jean offered. Her gaze bore into Clare more efficiently than any hunter’s workshop tool had ever cut  a beast’s flesh. Clare looked away, but she didn’t know  _ where  _ to look.

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Clare said, in finality, as she forced herself to walk forward. She would resupply and head out in a few hours. She didn’t have time to wait.

“Hey,” Jean’s voice, determined and powerful but tinged with caring, stopped Clare in her tracks. 

“If you’re going out to look for her, I’m coming with you.”

Clare couldn’t help the frown from forming on her face.

“You need to recover,” Clare said, mind reeling as she thought about what Jean’s back must look like, beneath the bandages.

“I’m as good as I’ll ever be. I’m coming with you.” 

“I don’t need company,” Clare forces out the words, one arm raising and crossing her chest to clutch at the elbow of the other.

“I’m coming with you.” Jean’s voice was bold, unwavering. Resolute in a way that struck Clare almost like a slap. 

Clare paused, eyes narrowing slightly as she looked up at the other woman. 

“Fine,” she spat, angry with herself for letting her emotions peak like this at all, and when Jean’s eyes narrowed with a knowing smile, Clare was nearly beside herself. “But I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know that,” Jean’s words followed her down at the hall as Clare she walked past.

 

* * *

 

Miria stood, facing away from a fire that had long ago burnt out. The room itself was lit in the corners by a number of candles, but the light didn’t travel towards the room’s center, and it was all in shadows that Miria’s eyes rested, trying to make out the form of the woman who stood before her.

The woman, dressed all in holy black and white, had on a cleric’s blindfolded cap. It covered her eyes, but not her lips. Miria watched her lips, hoping to garner some form of emotion. She couldn’t tell, at that very moment, whether or not she was in danger.

“Why are you here?” The cleric’s voice rang out, as clear and defiant as a morning bell. Miria nearly jumped at the sound, after so much silence.

“What reason would a noble hunter,  _ destroyer of beasts _ , have to venture forth, through the forest, beyond the gates, and up that stoney path?”

Miria said nothing. After all, what could she say? How could she explain the force that had driven her here? That feeling, of hopeless despair, of nothing to lose. The feeling of finally needing to understand  _ why _ . 

“What did you hope to find,  _ here,  _ in this forgotten place? This sacred, ruined memory, disguised as a place of knowledge?”

Miria said nothing, but her lips twitched. Who was this woman, who had stayed behind? In all truth, Miria had expected Brygenwerth, the place of scholars long since buried by time, to be empty. She didn’t have a plan for this at all.

“Is that it? Knowledge? Is that what you seek,  _ hunter _ ?” The cleric paused. “What do you hope to do, once the truth is revealed? And how could you possibly believe that we, who are fastened to the cold, dead earth, would ever know about the  _ truth _ ?”

Miria’s silence is overpowering. The robed woman, with her long pale hair, pauses in what seems like visible frustration. Then, she smiles.

“You’ve lost your fear,” the cleric says gently as she approaches Miria. “You’re here because you’ve forgotten your fear.” 

“And we know…” the cleric comes ever closer. Miria can feel the hairs at the back of her neck standing on end.

“That without fear in our hearts, we’re little different from the beasts themselves,” and as the cleric finished, her voice has drawn close and tight, whispered in scintillating surety.

“Don’t… touch me,” Miria retorts with an icy coldness, and yet her voice sounds strained and different to her.

“Touch you?” The cleric laughs, pulling away. “I’ve touched the stars above. I’ve felt my eyes open to the cosmos. I’ve communed with  _ gods _ . What use do I have, for you?”

And then, the cleric pauses. She turns away from Miria, her hand coming up to her lips. 

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” The cleric says, more to herself than anything. She turns her head, looking back at Miria’s hardened expression.

“What use do I have, for  _ you _ .”


	11. Rejoinder

The sun is rising. Slowly, with resolute surety, it pulls itself up from the horizon, painting Clare’s surroundings with an almost unfamiliar saturation of orange light. Morning light. Clare aches when she sees it. Because it’s so much more than just a sunrise. Finally, a new day. A new life. The nightmare, broken by light of day, would soon fade to merely a memory. Things would change.

Things _had_ to change.

Clare turns her head, nearly blinded from looking into the dazzling light of the rising sun, and then she sees her. Standing a few feet behind her, with her sharp eyes pinned not on the horizon, but looking directly back at her, is Jean.

It isn’t the Jean who had reverted back to her human form in the dungeon, breathless and drained. It isn’t the Jean who had desperately held on to Clare as she raged, biting down on her bottom lip to prevent a scream from escaping her lips as Clare’s claws dug into her skin. It isn’t even the Jean who had followed her out of Oedon Chapel on their undoubtedly suicidal mission to find Miria.

It’s the Jean from the dream. The vision. The trance.

This Jean, who had truly looked at Clare, and _saw_ her. Saw _everything_. Clare feels naked, despite this time being clothed. She raises her hands up as if to cover her chest, but stops halfway so that only her fingertips are touching at her forearms. She feels a nearly carnal force driving through her, something so close to rage and yet so far removed. A powerful desire, bordering on starved, desperate hunger. She remembers then, how it had felt to put her hand around Jean’s neck, the warmth of closeness as their bodies pressed together, and the way her tender lips had felt as she had claimed them with a kiss.

“I feel it, too,” Jean’s strong voice comes in waves, nearly toppling Clare with the sudden weight of them. Clare had forgotten that in this place, Jean could hear her every thought. Then, she felt something. The feeling of a moment, cascading upon her senses, consuming her psyche.

Jean, laying beneath her, pulling Clare closer as her strong arms clung to her powerful upper body. Jean’s eyes slammed shut. Covered in sweat. The tips of Clare’s hair brushing up against Jean’s cheeks as she hovered above her, and tickling her collarbone, and then her stomach, as Clare moved downwards. Jean’s breathing, rapid and pleading. A moan, torn from her lips.

Now it’s Jean’s turn to blush as her pale eyes widen. Clare says nothing in a desperate attempt to keep the fire burning within the core of her at bay. Jean seems to be literally suspended by the thought, hamstrung by the feeling of it. Clare watches as the sword hunter’s throat moves as she swallows thickly.

 _Damn it._ Jean’s thoughts become apparent in Clare’s mind.

“So it goes both ways,” Clare says simply, turning and taking a step towards Jean, her back to the sunrise. The light paints her in shadow from behind.

“Sorry, I--” Jean chokes out, voice breaking.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Clare replies calmly. “I’m the one who--”

A cry rises in the distance, and it cuts Clare short. Clare and Jean look at each other, and then they turn their heads in the direction of the sound.

A girl is on her knees, off the in the distance. Clare squints her eyes. Jean tilts her head.

The girl is hunched over, holding something tightly in her hands; pressing herself into it in a desperate hug. Jean steps forward, but Clare catches her wrist with vice-like tightness and holds her still. Jean can feel Clare’s hand trembling.

There’s a body lying motionless before the girl. The body has no head.

That’s when Jean realizes that the head is cradled within the girl’s arms.

 

* * *

 

 

Clare’s eyes fly open. The darkness of the forest surrounds her. The moon is out, and it shines through the openings of the forest’s canopy. Leaves blow against each other in the wind.

Her heart is racing, she can feel the beat of it deep in her throat. She’s sweating, and it takes a great force of will to calm herself.

As she regains her bearings, she looks around. Jean is there, sitting cross-legged across the small campfire. The flame flickers between them, sometimes covering Jean’s unreadable expression in bright flame.

Jean had been watching her, but when their gazes finally meet, Jean looks away.

“We have to keep moving,” Clare manages strength in her words as she pushes herself up to her feet. If she had meant to rest, it was a total failure. Whatever had just happened, be it a dream, or a vision, or… something else, had provided no interlude. Now, Clare felt exhausted, and her mind was full of so many questions as she and her companion stamped out the fire and continued to make their way through the thick, tangled forest.

Clare remembered everything from the dream, and she was starting to wonder if Jean was seeing it, too. Jean had been stoically quiet throughout the first leg of their journey, but now, she seems to have somehow closed herself off even more.

Clare feels a sudden urge to turn around and look at Jean. Her expression might shine some light on things.

_Did you see it, too?_

The question goes unasked, and instead replays itself over and over in Clare’s mind as she thinks about how Jean might respond. And if Jean _did_ partake in these dreams, how did she _feel_ about them? Certainly Jean couldn’t… want that. But Clare had no idea how to make them stop. She didn’t even really understand what they were in the first place.

“Hold,” Jean’s voice comes in a low whisper. Clare freezes, surprised by her own willingness to listen to another’s sudden command, “Do you see that light, in the distance?”

Clare looks ahead, and the light of a fire flickers against the thick trunks of surrounding trees. It’s too far off to hear anything, but there’s certainly something up ahead.

“We could go around,” Jean says huskily.

“No,” Clare replies, hand rising absently up so that she slides the tips of her fingers against the hilt of her saw cleaver. “If they’re heading in our same direction they’ll eventually come up on us from behind.” She pauses, pulling the cleaver out and carefully extending it so that it doesn’t make any sound.

Jean says nothing, but when Clare looks back she can see the taller hunter nod once in agreement as she pulls her massive sword from her back, holding it steadily in two hands.

They stalk through the forest, employing every skill of stealth under their command to move in silence.  Clare, still so unused to a companion, finds herself painfully aware of Jean’s every action as her companion moves quietly behind her.  They creep onward, unseen under the pale light of the moon, until they reach the perimeter of the small clearing.

Clare sees the small party of huntsman, villagers of Yharnam, recruited as hunters and then turned by the plague. A pitiful story, really. Some sit by the fire, weapons in hand. A few stand guard. All of them are in various states of transformation, with bodies that have elongated in gruesome malformation, and  long, matted fur covering their faces. Their wolf-like red eyes shine in the near-darkness. Clare spots one of them, standing up straighter as she sniffs the air thickly, and the beastial grip on her blood-stained pickaxe grows tighter.

“Now,” Clare whispers, and she can hear it as Jean’s tensed up bunch of muscles move in time with her own, bounding forward and then splitting directions. The beauty of it, the way Jean could match her and move with and around her, struck Clare then. She found subroutines in her mind to appreciate this, as she flew forward and sent the first huntsman crashing down into the campfire with an overhand swing of her cleaver. The serrated edge glistening in the combined light of the dying fire and the moon before sinking deep into the beast’s stomach, pulling forth a broken howl of pain before she ripped it out to silence.

This was, after all, a routine encounter. These pitiful creatures were Yharnamites. Townspeople, recruited by one of the first great hunters, so long ago. They had meant to protect their homes, and then they had turned, becoming the very beasts they sought to destroy. Many of them, hunted by their own, evacuated the city, residing within the dark isolation of the forest. They had been human, once, but they had never truly been _hunters_.

A small-statured beast flew towards her, gripping a spear within shaking claws. Clare stunned her with a pistol shot to the shoulder, it sent her reeling back, and as she lost her balance and began to fall backwards, Clare darted forward and sent the cleaver downwards. She couldn’t deny it. The commanding power she felt, in these brief moments. Every action; every reaction; every dash and swing and swipe, another stroke of the brush. But what picture was she painting? The thought struck her like a blow, and she froze.

She paused long enough for the smallest of openings. The lone huntsman, the final remaining member of the small party they had ambushed, rushed her from behind. She could hear the hurried, pounding footsteps. She started to turn.

Jean grunted, pulling her sword out from the chest of one beast and leaping forward in the air, coming down from above while the huntsman was still meters away from Clare’s frozen form. He had been coming so fast that he was falling forward, and his extended neck, made a perfect target for the violent edge of Jean’s blade.

She came down fast and hard, slicing through the beast’s neck with a stroke as powerful as it was sharp, slamming through the meat and the bone until she destroyed it, executioner-style, so that the body fell forward and the head dropped down into the dirt, rolling towards Clare’s feet with a final burst of momentum.

Clare looked down at the severed head, and time stopped.

_It was a clean blow. Barely any blood, as it the sword itself had a burning, cauterizing effect. Her hair had still been silken, soft to the touch, long and flowing, blanketing Clare’s body, dropping down her trembling thighs, resting upon the mud, pale and glistening in the light of the sun. Her skin was still warm, and her eyes…_

Clare forces it down, managing to hold it all in. Her knuckles, white where she held her saw cleaver, relax as she finds herself again. It was just a memory. Just a thing that had happened, and now it was over. If the feelings were there, she would just push them back down. It was in the past, and she didn’t have to feel like this anymore. _She didn’t have to feel at all._

Laughter rises from Clare’s stomach, fluttering out of her chest and ripping wildly into the sky like a bird escaping from a rusted cage. She can feel the laughter, but there’s nothing attached to it. It’s empty, and she’s surprised to hear such a foreign sound coming from so deep within herself.

When she finally tears her gaze up and away, she remembers Jean, standing a few meters away. Jean had dropped her sword, standing now so still that she looks almost like a statue. Then, Clare sees her eyes, and the expression on her features. A knowing look of caring despair, pity and heartbreak rolled up with cautious concern. And something deeper, lying below the surface.

That’s when Clare realizes that Jean had seen the dreams, too.

 

* * *

 

 

“We don’t have to keep doing this.”

Helen’s voice comes out fractured and disjointed, not carrying any of the usual sly playfulness that she can usually manage. It’s serious, and sincere, and _pleading_.

Deneve feels it like a gunshot wound. Small, but deep. Bleeding out, but she doesn't let it stop her. She pushes herself off the wall. She doesn’t want to look weak right now, in any sense of the word. She’s standing, and she can stand on her own. She doesn’t need help. She can do this. She can take care of things. She can find a way to fix things. She--

“Deneve,” Helen’s voice breaks a little bit more, like cracks in a glass mirror, distorting the world around them, removing Deneve’s certainty just a little bit more each time. “ _Please_.”

Deneve looks away, gritting her teeth hard, biting the side of her lip in the process, almost enough to draw blood.

“If we don’t leave, nothing will ever change.” She spits out angrily, regretting her tone immediately as she sees Helen’s shoulder visibly slump at her words.

“Y’know, I really don’t get it. Like, _at all_. What are you even looking for, out there?” Helen says the words with all the energy she has left, in the way that people do when they’ve hashed out a discussion over, and over, and over, and now it’s just the motions that they’re going through, out of pure force of will, because what other option was there?

“A way to end this. A way to get out. I don’t want to just sit here and wait for something bad to happen to you, to _us_ ...” Deneve speaks as slowly and sincerely as possible, despite the vicious urge she feels to just get out. To _act_.

“Nothing bad will happen _if we don’t leave the chapel_ ,” Helen says, anger edging into her voice. Deneve feeds off of it, and it lights a fire in her own heart. An angry, defensive ember, resting burning and dying like a phoenix throughout the neverending night.

“Damn it, why can’t you just let me do this!?” Deneve erupts, shards of feeling exploding from her voice, “I don’t want to be _your responsibility_. I’m sick of… this.” She waves her hand across the chapel, and Helen’s expression changes from one fiery anger to the rising tide of hurt.

“You really want to go that badly, huh?” She replies, her voice subdued; defeated.

“Please, just…” Deneve says, her own voice softening as she feels Helen’s change in tone. “Let me do this for you. One last try.” She takes one of Helen’s hands within her own. “If I come up short, we’ll do it your way.”

“I just… I don’t want you to go alone,” Helen’s voice is dismal. So different from her usual coy, teasing tone. She just doesn’t have the energy to keep it up anymore. Her chest feels heavy. She realizes again, just like every other time, that no matter what she would say, nothing would change.

“Me either, but we can’t just leave the chapel unprotected,” Deneve responds gently, stepping forward to pull Helen into a loose embrace. Helen leans into her, putting her free hand up on the muscles at Deneve’s shoulder, clutching there weakly.

“I’ll come back,” Deneve consoles her as she gives Helen’s hand a tight squeeze, “When I’ve found a way out of this nightmare, I’ll come back for you.”

She leans forward, bending down as a hand rises to brush a few stray strands of hair behind Helen’s ear. How long has it been, since they’ve had the chance to enjoy such an intimate moment? Deneve presses lips tenderly against Helen’s forehead, and whispers, breath hot against her skin.

“We’ll escape _together_.”

Helen gives no reply as her eyes slide closed, spending all of her energy to focus on the sound of Deneve’s heartbeat, and the rise and fall of her chest.


End file.
